Baker Street In The Dark
by ImagineI
Summary: A prolonged, multi-chapter love story between John Watson and Sherlock Holmes. Their first time s!  BBC. Hope you enjoy. RATED T WITH M THEMES LATER ON.
1. Darkness

Okay! So, John and Sherlock pairing. Please review with any thoughts, it's very encouraging and promotes the chance for future chapters (of course, lack of reviews is also helpful in signalling that no more chapters are wanted). Hope you enjoy! This will be a multi-chapter fic, separately, (hopefully!) but is also featured in my Sherlock Drabbles : )

BBC Sherlock.

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><p>Darkness<p>

"Sh-Sher_lock_!" John groaned. Sherlock's cool hand swept over John's muscled stomach, tangibly admiring the cut edges of his _rectus abdominis _and _rectus sheath_ individually, stroking back the golden hair and gripping with his nails the lithe s_erratus anterior_. John was lying flat on the bed, under the devilish detective, having been pushed down moments before. Sherlock's nose nudged into John's hip, more precisely his _inguinal ligament_, his rear thrust into the air in those tight, black suit trousers, his suit jacket draped on either side of them both, like some Cartier cocoon. "Sherlock, I don't want to do this," John hissed, though the fact that the ex-soldier wasn't pushing Sherlock off told an entirely different story and accounted for the tension in John's hands, shoulders and groin in quite another fashion.

"I. Don't. Care," Sherlock whispered. His voice was silk. He analysed a territory of flesh just above John's waist and pulled John's sweater further up. "I want this. I've never-" Sherlock slid his knee up to John's groin and let out a small, gasping groan himself- "Never wanted this. Until now."

It was dark in Sherlock's bedroom and the window was covered with a thick drape that just about concealed the milky lamp of the moon. So all was in shadow. Sherlock _was_ shadow, as his musician's fingers scratched up John's sides, a byproduct of pushing up that woollen jumper; as his teeth lightly, _lightly_ grazed under John's navel. He smelled of mint, fresh- _from the menthol of that cheap, supermarket brand shower gel_, Sherlock mused- and something warmer underneath... like hot milk... and honey. It was all Sherlock could do to not lick him.

Feeling his nerves stand to attention and practically salute Sherlock, John gritted his teeth and scrunched his eyes closed, resisting the effeminate urge to bite his lower lip-

Because Sherlock- virgin, asexual Sherlock- was so very, _very_ good at this. His long index finger stroked the diagonal line of John's _external oblique_, sending a shiver of shock up John's spine. He still had not touched Sherlock himself, rigid beneath this sudden, spontaneous Romeo. His mind turned dark as he realised that would make him Juliet, but he had little time to wallow under that, as Sherlock spoke.

"Have you ever?" he asked, quietly as he slowly sniffed at John's torso.

"Ever... what, sex? Of cour-"

"With a man." John's eyes opened, his mouth opened as he began to breathe shallowly through it.

"Oh..." Sherlock paused in his ministrations and looked up, face navy in the darkness, but John could see the eyes wide with inquiry and mouth pouted in focus; he knew Sherlock was near totally unaware of this habit.

John cleared his throat.

"So, yes, then," Sherlock surmised.

"I didn't say anything-"

"You cleared your throat. You do that when you're thinking and if you've never entered into male sexual relations then you would not have needed to ponder the matter."

"I love it when you talk dirty." John said this for the humour and as a small stab at Sherlock out of frustration for his knowing him so well. Sherlock tried, hopelessly, to reduce the size of his pupils as they expanded; he loved the gravel of John's voice, so much so that it sparked a fire under the skin of his cheeks and chest.

"So," Sherlock continued, "you have? In the army, I assume."

"No, just... no! There was an 'almost' incident, but nothing of great- _ah_!" Sherlock, bored no doubt, had pushed his palm against John's groin. He tapped his fingers on John's belt.

"I've only read. I'm fairly skilled in theory. Never performed a practical."

"Can you please not turn this into a scientific shag? Can it please just be a shag?"

"Oh," and here Sherlock's voice melted into a lower, darker octave as he reared his whole torso up and kneeled between John's legs. "So you do want this to happen?"

Frank as ever, John sighed and spluttered.

"I'd have thought your research would have answered that question."

"I'm flirting."

"What?"

"Rhetorical questions have proved an effective device for flirtation." Sherlock's tone was so honest and forthwith, that John remained gaping for a few seconds before he replied.

"You've really never done this before, have you?"

"No," and with that, Sherlock looked away. His knees splayed apart and his arms hung loosely at his sides.

"Not even a fast fondle?"

"No."

"Quickie?"

"Never."

"One night stand?"

"Nein," Sherlock bit the word out. The silence was all too telling of Sherlock's disgruntled embarrassment.

"So," and John managed to ask this as though he wasn't being almost straddled by Sherlock, "I'm actually the expert here?"

"Sixteen short-term, heterosexual relationships over a thirty-year period does not equal professionalism."

"Err, and one make-out in the military. With a man." John smiled, a little smug.

Sherlock head snapped round and he locked stares with John for a long moment. They could not see the colour of one another's eyes.

John hummed and looked down at his belt. He was beginning to sympathise with Sherlock and did not feel the burning desire to tease him. He pushed back and bent his elbows behind him after flicking on the light on the bedside table. The periodic table poster glowed down on them from the ceiling, turning John rainbow-coloured. Sherlock was gazing at John's jumper-sheathed chest, eyes glazed as though he wasn't looking properly at all. His hair was monstrously marvellous, carelessly coifed and boldly black as a nighttime London alleyway. John reckoned it would feel like silk...

Light on, they both suddenly felt the intensity and daren't look into eachother's eyes.

Sherlock's eyes flickered to John's hair instead, the texture of which looked like fox-fur, grey and sandy like a day on an English beach.

John swallowed and bucked up his courage.

"I want to do this..." he said, quietly. He then pushed up, effortlessly, and slid Sherlock's jacket over his shoulders. From there, the jacket slipped off by itself and Sherlock's white shirt was also tattooed with the rainbow reflections of the coloured periodic table poster. Sherlock smiled, tightly.

"Fitting colours for the scene," he joked. The banner of the LGBT community swayed in John's mind and he let out a short laugh.

His eyes turned wide as he studied the blue duvet cover to his left.

"We haven't even kissed yet..." he muttered.

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><p>Reviews, please : ) Either way, I hope you enjoy, but feedback is pretty much monumental in how my stories turn out in that I am experimenting on this website and would love to know the effects of my writing so that I might continue or cut techniques.<p>


	2. Shadows

Shadows

Sherlock strode through the living room door with marvellous murder etched onto his face, thrill in his glacial eyes- oh, he was ever so cool- and gloved hands raised to the heavens. The shadows of his pale face were emphasised by the several lamps that were switched on in the apartment, necessary since the sun had departed. Street-lamps from outside lent an amber glow to the occasion too.

"John, I've found it. I've discovered why the amniotic fluid was there!" He began to slip a glove off. "It was so obvious, even you should have-"

John did not care. He did not care about the case. Not now. Not. Now. No.

He marched to Sherlock from the fireplace in two seconds flat, put his warm palms on either side Sherlock's face- which was icy from his walkings in nighttime wintertide London- and pulled him down for a strong kiss. Both of their eyes shut. Sherlock's tall body instinctively lurched back, one naked hand tensing around its half-gloved partner in shock, but John did not surrender his mission. He was, truth be told, not kissing Sherlock in a particularly passionate manner- no tongues were tangoing and his lips did not move from his fairly forceful lock. But when John's hand reached up to grab onto Sherlock's hair, his mouth decided, logically, to slip and pay more intimate attention to Sherlock's lower lip. _God_, it felt good. So good. Splendiferously good. Sherlock smelt like cold, fresh air but with the ever-present, underlying scent of book pages. His hair felt just as silky and thick as John had imagined but twenty-two hours before. His lips were... full, slightly dry and tasted of honey (no doubt from the bread and honey John had practically force-fed him that morning before Sherlock had dashed off). He had been mulling this kiss over in his mind all day, contemplating how or when or why he should. He had not allowed himself to suffer under the panic of 'why do I want to kiss him in the first place? Is that normal?' Shortly, Sherlock managed to pull away.

He did not look offended, he did not look angry, he did not look incensed. He just looked mighty confused and it made John's smile quiver into existence. He had just baffled Sherlock Holmes.

John took a step back and folded his arms over his red, black and beige woollen jumper, smiling.

"There. It's done," he said, rather business-like. Sherlock steadily gained his composure, straightening his back and blinking a fair few times before degloving his other hand and tucking it into his corresponding pocket.

"Now? Now was when you deemed appropriate to engage in osculation?" Sherlock half-shouted in protest.

"_Now_ it's out of the way," John replied, unfazed by Sherlock's befuddlement. "_Now_, I don't have to hold my patience whilst you look all focused and intense over the case. Now the tension's gone. Well, some of it. A little bit. I wanted to last night night when... you know, but we got interrupted by Mrs Hudson calling after you and the rent and then we didn't really get a chance to even properly speak about since Lestrade leapt onto your back at midnight to help him in this case..."

"Now the tension's gone? By any means of deduction, surely desire has increased?" Characteristically, Sherlock was honing in only on the details he ranked as important.

"I'm not going to turn this into a formula with you," John said, briskly, turning on his heel and walking to the kitchen, though he still seemed pretty cheerful. "Tea?"

Sherlock cleared his throat and shook his head very slightly, staring at the carpet as though its silk-woven wonder could grant him some elucidation. John just managed to catch the shake of Sherlock's head as he swiftly moved into the kitchen and set about making them both a cup of tea anyway.

Sherlock's body was going through a little moment of malfunction.

"So, um..." he continued, in as confident a voice as he could. _Um? Um! Since when did Sherlock Holmes say 'um'?_ "The amniotic fluid was..." His _broca_ reposed into its "screen-saver" mode as Sherlock remained rooted to the spot. He could still feel John's fingers on his face, could still feel the toasty warmth that had washed through the ice in his cheeks that he had been ignoring outside because he'd been too preoccupied. His lips were buzzing and he was experiencing _hidrosis_ of the palms and although he definitely was not enjoying the sensation of not knowing what to say or even if he wanted to say anything at all, he knew one thing:

He was hungry for more.

This surprised and did not surprise him. He had never desired physical contact- save for an embrace from his mother, whom he adored and would kill literally anyone for- with any other human being except for John and so had assumed that he was just not made to enjoy it. Last night had turned two decade's worth of theories void. He had seen John at New Scotland Yard, voice so official and serious as he advised Lestrade on a plan of action for a drugs bust. He was a specialist in covert attacks... recent evidence supported this. Then he'd watched John "chatting up", as people called it, that divorced secretary who wore an abundance of cheap foundation that did not suit her skin tone by at least two shades but who wore very expensive red nail polish. He'd then watched John in the taxi ride home. Then at the door. Then up the stairs. Then... then his body had taken control. It wasn't as if he didn't watch John normally, but yesterday had been... what was the phrase? Ah, yes: the straw that broke the camel's back. Heat flared like a ribbon of flames down the right side of his neck and right shoulder as he recalled the heat and shivers of last night, the powerful muscle of John's torso and musky, darkly sweet smell...

He went into a daze for a good minute.

Realising he had not respired for quite some time as he had studied several sudden physical and mental symptoms, he inhaled sharply as John came back into the room. It sounded like a gasp to John, who went to sit in his armchair but then stopped himself and gave Sherlock a serious, but still smiling, look.

"Sherlock. You okay?"

Sherlock looked up, eyes wide, then closed his eyes for a second and forced his eyes to settle at half-mast, so he appeared unaffected.

"Yes. Of course."

"You haven't moved from that spot for three minutes at least. Am I to assume that is my doing or the effects of some sudden light-bulb-flash about the case?"

Sherlock looked away from John, shrugged off his coat and folded it over the back of a wooden chair and strode into the kitchen just as he had strode into 221B Baker Street minutes beforehand. When he realised he hadn't come into the kitchen for anything other than to escape the scrutiny of his flatmate, he grew instantly frustrated and his hands clenched into fists and then relaxed at his sides in quick succession. He took a couple of seconds to listen to the constant, humming voice in some distant corner of his mind, the one that droned on and on and on about details from whatever the current case was. His back was to John, who was sipping his tea, waiting for a reply from Sherlock at the same time as admiring the creases and outlines of Sherlock's dark blue shirt. Those angular shoulders that were just wider than his waist and hips...

Sherlock, who had tied two clues together in the space of a heartbeat in the meantime, was now back to analysing his emotional state (a state that was so rarely analysed, that it had to rub its eyes and rake its fingers through it knotted hair to look not even halfway decent for Sherlock's inspection).

"Sherlock..."

"What?" Sherlock barked, harsher than intended.

"Okay," John settled into the armchair and picked up a newspaper, trying not to take offence and panicking about his actions. He knew how Sherlock got when he was on an especially meaty case.

What he didn't know was that Sherlock was opening an exceptionally dusty book in his mind, flicking to a specific page with his cerebral quill at the ready. There was a list, of independent occurrences, which tallied the firsts of his life. The quill scratched away.

_Saturday, January 4th - First Kiss._


End file.
